by Markus Heitz
An elf in elaborate clothing confronted them, arms outstretched to prevent their progress. Then he folded his arms and bowed. “In the name of my lord and master, I bid you welcome, High King Boïndil. Please ask all but three of your best people to wait here in this anteroom, after the precedent set by Rodario the First.”
Ireheart had no intention of doing without his bodyguards. “My warriors are all best ones. How could I possibly choose?”
“Then take the cleverest ones.”
“But they’re all clever,” he growled. “You see? We’re not going to agree on this.”
“The cleverest,” the elf replied, “will be the ones who stand back and let the best ones forward.”
“Elf sophistry,” Aurogar sighed in exasperation, using his own language. “They could talk even an orc into committing suicide. Just imagine if the pig-faces had asked an elf for directions …”
The dwarves laughed.
“This is getting us nowhere.” Ireheart quickly rattled out three names without further ado. He took his mantle off, revealing his armour. “Aurogar, you stay here and listen out.” He handed over his cloak. “When I give the signal, do what we’ve agreed.” He kept his right hand on the head of his crow’s beak.
The elf’s features narrowed but he said nothing as he led them through the anteroom.
There were soldiers standing around in small groups, the emblem of Urgon on their armour. They nodded at the dwarves. Elves circulated offering tea and refreshments.
Ireheart and his three companions were led through a corridor to another round entrance with a bronze door. Four elves were standing guard outside. They only opened it after their escort had spoken an incredibly complicated password.
This is getting interesting. Ireheart was lost after the first three syllables.
The room inside was full of the fragrance of incense and flower essences. It was all a bit heavy and it made Ireheart sneeze. He noticed there were three elf-soldiers and three humans standing behind Rodario and the Naishïon, who were both seated.
And that wretched child!
Sha’taï was sitting next to the Emperor of Girdlegard, prettily dolled up, looking harmless enough with her large eyes and shy smile. Ireheart exhaled heavily, a more honest comment than any words. By Vraccas, this could get nasty. “Keep your eyes on me,” he whispered to the dwarf closest to him. “If I start behaving strangely, knock me unconscious and carry me out.” This was met with an astonished look.
Ireheart waved his hand dismissively and made his way to the armchair provided for him. The extra height of the seat brought him eye to eye with the other two. He appreciated the thoughtfulness.
“Well, here we all are,” he said. “The Mighty Three are gathered together.” He spoke respectfully. “And perhaps the most powerful of all,” he added after a short pause, glancing at Sha’taï. He leaned his weapon against the table.
“How do you mean?” Rodario’s costume was more flamboyant than a kingfisher’s plumage. His hair was freshly arranged and his beard and moustache were waxed.
“Children can affect the hardest of hearts,” he said, covering up the implication of his words. Sha’taï had not reacted as he had expected she would. She did not seem startled and she did not send a malevolent glance his way. The injuries at her throat were now only visible as faint scratches. That must be where the history-teller’s blade had touched her. “Unless it’s an älf wanting her blood and bones.”
Ataimînas smiled politely. He wore a cloak of white silk embroidered with gold and silver thread over a slim-fitting black robe, with a black sash around his hips. “Welcome to Ti Lesîndur, High King Boïndil.”
“I thank you. And may Vraccas’ blessings be on us all.” He looked around ostentatiously. “Where are the others?” And where’s the beer?
“What others?” Rodario was puzzled.
“Girdlegard has other rulers—not only you.”
“Likewise, there are other dwarf kings, but you came on your own,” he answered with a mischievous wink.
“Cut out the winks! That might go down well with your women, but …”
Ataimînas stepped in. “Today is a unique occasion. We three, rulers over the peoples of Girdlegard, will be discussing, and agreeing on, the overall strategy and way forward for our homeland in the coming cycles. Then we shall debate the details affecting what we will ask of the various kingdoms.”
“Each of us should contribute what he is best at and what he has the most of,” continued Rodario.
“Well, we dwarves have got an awful lot of stones.” Ireheart crossed his arms. “So this means the others are turning up tomorrow?”
The elf and the human nodded.
“I find that remarkable.”
“Why so hostile, dear friend? Did you have an uncomfortable ride?” Rodario spread his arms in a patronising gesture. “Look, we’re all of us equal here.”
“You’ll get my opinion on that,” Ireheart replied, his blood starting to boil. His last beer had been quite some time ago. “I want everyone round the table when we discuss Girdlegard’s future.”
“Then summon all the dwarf kings and queens to Barrenbrig,” Rodario said, stroking Sha’taï’s hair as if she were a lucky talisman.
“We don’t need them. It’s obvious what my race will contribute in the coming cycles.” He tapped the grip of his crow’s beak. “As long as there is a spark in the life-forge of a single dwarf, we will protect all humans and elves. You’d have to weigh that in the balance. And we can make steel. The best there is.”
Ataimînas relaxed slightly. “I am glad.”
He is glad. His uneasiness increasing, Ireheart’s words came thick and fast. “I assume you are also grateful to me for keeping the newcomers out until such time as you’ve developed a method for neutralising the eye-whitener,” he hurtled on. “That’s also our way of protecting Girdlegard.” He bit his tongue. “Is there any beer?” he asked, rather embarrassed at himself. “A dark beer would be nice?”
Rodario placed both hands on the table, stretching out his arms in a somewhat grandiose manner. His training on the stage had combined with an exaggerated self-worth now that he was emperor.
“I would ask you, Ireheart, to be more measured,” he said snootily. “We know that …”
“Forgive me for interrupting, Rodario the First, but High King Boïndil is absolutely correct.” Ataimînas looked gloomy. “Ever since the hatred began between the elves and the älfar, they have been unable to avoid the curse. The greatest weapon they can wield against us is lack of trust. My race will not be able to develop fully until we can be sure that we have found and unmasked every single älf. This will take some time. Until then, High King, I beg you: keep the gates closed. Do not let any elf pass through unless they have been tested.”
This surprised Ireheart in spite of his unease. “Are you working on a method of recognising the black-eyes?”
“We have not completed our research yet but we are optimistic we can speed up the process.” Ataimînas steepled his fingers, drawing attention to the many rings he wore over his delicate leather gloves. “So far we have vetted four hundred—warriors and healers alike—and there is no doubt at all that they belong to our race. Ten of each profession will proceed to the dwarf regions to examine the new arrivals at the gates. Meanwhile, the rest will thoroughly check all the elves already here.”
Ireheart gazed at the elf, whose green eyes were shimmering as though he were holding back tears. I want to know. “And what about you?”
“Ireheart!” Rodario was appalled. “He is the Naishïon!”
“And an elf.” The dwarf stared at him intensely. “Or could he be an älf? What proof have we got?” Damn this passion! I need a beer to dampen my fire.
Ataimînas got to his feet. Ireheart thought initially that the elf was about to leave and sabotage the meeting, but Ataimînas slipped the clothing from his upper body and showed them his back. There was a symbol that looked like a tattoo acro
ss the expanse of it. On closer inspection it proved to be a brand, together with small scars, making up a complex pattern. It could be interpreted as decorative but it was obvious the pain would have been atrocious.
“This is the seal of Sitalia,” he explained. “A healer seals it into the flesh together with an elf spell. If one of my race were to touch it or if certain syllables are spoken, it will start to glow, demonstrating that the bearer is a true elf.”
“And what happens with an älf?” Ireheart wanted to know.
“Nothing at all. They’d only be able to paint on a copy.”
Ireheart was impressed. “That’s what I call a proper test.”
“May I see it from close up?” This was Sha’taï’s polite request.
“No,” shushed Rodario. “You can’t …”
“Let her.” Ataimînas turned his back towards her and Ireheart held his breath. “Take a good look.”
Sha’taï got up and gingerly went closer, climbing up on to the Naishïon’s chair to admire the seal. “How beautiful,” she breathed. “How long do your artists need to do that, High Lord of the Elves?”
“It feels like an eternity while they’re doing it,” he answered with honesty. “The torture constitutes the actual test. The brand is the seal of approval. The evidence and the blessing the Creator gives.”
Ireheart’s hands gripped the table edge as Sha’taï, all innocence, stretched out a finger to touch the Naishïon’s skin. For a heartbeat the lines in his skin appeared to flash. But the dwarf could have been mistaken.
“Sha’taï!” Rodario was shocked and called the child to order.
The dark blonde-haired girl jumped down off the chair in shock and threw herself on the floor. “Pardon me, O High Lord of the Elves! But I …”
Ataimînas slipped his robes back up over his shoulders and smiled, reaching a gloved hand out to her. “Do not worry. What did it feel like?”
“Like soft tree bark,” Sha’taï replied as she was helped to her feet. “High Lord of the Elves, please pardon my curiosity.” By Vraccas. What hope have I got if she’s wound him round her little finger? Ireheart swallowed. His throat was terribly dry. “I’m thirsty,” he managed to croak.
Ataimînas called one of the guards over. “Of course, High King. I’ll have some refreshments brought. Your voice sounds as if you had been working at the furnace without a break. Black beer, then?” The dwarf nodded. “And water and wine. I’m sure when we have all had something to drink we’ll be better able to discuss the way forward.”
“Here’s to us and all the gods! Girdlegard grows ever stronger!” Rodario was overdoing the jubilant tone. “Oh, and do tell us: where’s the new Tungdil? Is he coming?”
Ireheart asked for a second beer. A very big tankard of very strong beer. “He’s taking a break. May be some time,” he replied. And his answer was not far from the truth.
Girdlegard
Black Mountains
Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves
Eastern Gate
6492nd solar cycle, winter
Bolîngor threw down the mantle and wasted no further words. He attacked the murderous elf who had treacherously slain four of the guards without giving them any chance to defend themselves. He did not even shout a warning.
As the elf parried his blows, his own club met metal with a thump and a clang. Bolîngor knew he must pursue the enemy and keep him busy. He struck deliberately high, aiming the spikes at throat and head. At such close quarters, the elf was in trouble and could not ward off the dwarf’s attacks using his long sword.
You will kill no more dwarves. Bolîngor pulled a dagger out of the harness on his back and rammed it up to the hilt into his enemy’s left thigh, yanking the blade sideways to the right, severing muscle and tendons. The injured leg shook and the elf collapsed with a shout. As he fell he struck out at the dwarf, who parried the blow with his bloody dagger and hammered the long spikes of his war club into the elf’s face.
The elf was hurled back by the impact to land at the feet of the reinforcements as they arrived on the scene. The dwarves stared at the dead elf’s disfigured face. Alarm gongs and bugles were still sounding—the hunt was on.
“I was right to kill him. He killed four of my guards,” Bolîngor panted out his explanation, pointing at the pile of corpses. “Take care when you find the other two.”
“Three,” came a pain-filled voice behind him. “It’s three again, Captain.”
Bolîngor turned around.
The dwarves who had captured the first elf lay groaning on the ground. The elf had used the confusion to overcome them and escape. But none of these guards had, it seemed, been killed.
“We’ll get him,” Bolîngor vowed. Grabbing his cloak, he slung it on and went out through the door the first elf had fled through. Not all of them are murderers. It required some mental effort for him to press the catch on his club, making the spikes retreat. “We will get each and every one of them!”
The steel and granite gates for the second and third lines of defence inside the mountain had been automatically and instantly closed at the first sounding of the alarm. The remaining three elves could not have got through into the tunnels, nor would any future intruders be able to. The search would be restricted to the foremost fortress.
“It’s the advance party. They want to open the portcullis.” Bolîngor gave orders to double the guard at the controls for the massive iron grating. Then he took a quick look out of the window to see what was happening back at the camp.
The elves had been roused by the noise and lights in the stronghold. A large group of them had gathered in the middle of the camp, clearly debating what to do. Then around fifty broke away, led by Chynêa. They bore lanterns to light their path.
“I’ll go down and calm her fears,” he announced. “Get the Chancellor over here.” Bolîngor hurried down to the main gate, buttoning his coat. “Leave the heavy screen open,” he commanded, as the procession of lights approached. “Let the elves see we Thirdlings have nothing to hide.”
Chynêa was at the head of the band and her escort carried weapons and shields. “What’s happened?” she called out impatiently at the grating. “Can we be of any assistance? How have the beasts got in to the fortress?”
This surprised Bolîngor. “We have not been attacked.” Either the elves were putting on an excellent show of innocence or they were really unaware. It would be a clever trick to arrive fully armed claiming to want to help their allies in battle. “Four of your people broke in. Two others must be lying in the snow by the outer wall.”
Chynêa noted the blood spatters on his face, hands and club. “Are they still alive?” she asked quietly, indicating he should reply in a concealed gesture, not words. When he showed three fingers, she paled, turned to two of her escort and sent them over to where the elves who had fallen must be lying. “Take care of them.”
“We will not harm any of your people if they don’t harm us,” Bolîngor reassured. “Otherwise we must respond in kind with the same degree of severity.”
Chynêa was about to reply but the murmuring behind her grew in intensity. She had to turn and speak to the crowd to settle them, but they were being joined by many more armed figures from the camp. Now some of the feared longbow archers were emerging. One of these marksmen might easily aim a shot through the portcullis grating.
A low cry, not from a dwarf throat, sounded in the passage. The elves pricked up their ears. Bolîngor turned to see what was happening behind him.
Four of his guards were pursuing an injured elf who was lurching rather than running. Blood spurted from a wound on his thigh and yet he continued to try to make his escape. Someone threw an axe that narrowly missed him. At that, the elves watching through the iron grating raised their voices in outrage and dismay.
The elf had no weapon to hand. This did not mean he had behaved peaceably up till then. But Bolîngor realised exactly how things must look to the others. He was especially concerned about th
e longbows. He wished Rognor were here. Should I get this gate shut now … ?
A war club came sailing through the air and hit the injured elf on the lower leg, tripping him up.
The dwarves were on him in a flash.
If I don’t stop them, they’ll kill him and there will be uproar here at the gates. “Don’t touch him!” Bolîngor yelled, seeing one of them circling his morningstar over his head ready to strike.
“He killed one of us,” the guard objected. “And you …”
“Let him live,” Bolîngor roared, turning and stomping over to them. “We will give him to his peers. They will judge his actions.”
The dwarves kept their hold on the elf, turning him over onto his front and forcing his arms behind his back to tie him up.
“Thank you,” Chynêa cried. “We shall ask him what happened and we will give our verdict accordingly.”
“I shall see to it personally.” Bolîngor had covered a short distance when a shadow launched itself down at him. His right shoulder cracked and his arm went dead. Because he could not move his arm, he was unable to save himself as he fell; he crashed against the icy granite, snorting with fury. While he was still trying to swivel round, the elf ran over him towards the portcullis which now clattered its way up. He too had been injured and red life-juice was dripping from his side. “Don’t believe a word the mountain maggots say!” he yelled, incensed. “They chased us and they killed Jorinîl. They slaughtered him in front of my eyes!”
Bolîngor forced himself up to sitting. How did he get into the guardroom to turn the lever for the gate? There were half a dozen warriors stationed in there to prevent exactly that happening. He must have killed them all!
The sounds of protest grew louder.
“Semhîlas, what have you done?” Chynêa asked reproachfully. “What possessed you and your friends to break in to the fortress?”
“We did it because it is our sacred duty!” Semhîlas was close to the iron gate, which was steadily rising and would soon present an opening the crowd outside could storm through.